When I was younger, I had a friend named Rick—someone who hung around effortlessly, friendly in private, yet always ready to humiliate me in public. He mocked my clothes, threw around cruel slurs, and slapped my back with unrestrained force. But then he’d flash a wry smirk and wink, as if it were all just a game.
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Looking back over the whirlwind of the past three weeks, I couldn’t help but notice the uncanny resemblance between Oscar-nominated actor Timothée Chalamet—the man who now held the key to my girlfriend’s heart, or at least her body—and that very friend Rick.
When I learned I was chosen to attend an exclusive, behind-the-scenes dinner with the lead actor from my most anticipated film, Dune Part 3, my girlfriend Emma barely cared. I was a die-hard fan; she had little interest and no fascination with Timothée.
“I just don’t get it,” she said with a shrug. “His face is okay, but he’s so… feminine.”
“Maybe some people like that,” I answered undeterred.
She laughed and walked away.
Finding out the event allowed a plus-one, I convinced Emma to watch the first two movies. Initially reluctant, she gradually immersed herself in the lore and characters, even starting the original book. Over time, her criticisms of Paul Atreides’s actor and his looks softened.
Before long, it was Emma, not me, who was gushing when the day finally arrived and we stood mere inches from Timothée himself.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Timothée greeted warmly, extending a strong hand my way. His grip was firm—far stronger than I expected from someone of his slender, slightly shorter frame. There was something undefinable about the way he carried himself.
His hazel eyes met mine briefly before flickering to Emma, petite at 5’4″ but towering beside him in a way that made him appear taller.
“And you as well, milady,” he said, taking Emma’s hand and pressing a delicate kiss. Her cheeks flamed crimson as a delighted giggle escaped her. His gaze returned to mine, sending an unexpected flutter through my chest.
He straightened up, gesturing toward the elegantly set table. Emma dazzled in a revealing red dress; I’d chosen a blazer and trousers. We’d worried we were overdressed, but Timothée’s sharp black blazer, open white shirt descending to his sternum, and loose-fitting pants suggested he valued the evening.
Conversation flowed effortlessly. Timothée—who insisted we call him Timmy—was charming and captivating. Emma, typically reserved, laughed freely as if possessed by a newfound joy. I was starstruck, caught up in his enthusiasm for everything Dune, his genuine admiration for the books shining through.
After indulging in an exquisite chocolate cake, we exchanged numbers, planning to meet in the city the next time he was around. I looked forward to it.
Emma excused herself to the restroom, leaving me alone with Timothée. The lighting transformed his hazel eyes into a deep brown, and the dazzling star smile softened into something almost unrecognizable—true happiness.
“This has been amazing, seriously,” he said, savoring his wine. “It’s rare to meet couples as cool as you two.”
“Thanks, man,” I replied, chuckling. “And it’s rare to meet…uh…movie stars as down-to-earth as you.” We shared a laugh and a respectful nod over our glasses.
Then, without warning, Timothée’s tone shifted. Setting his glass aside, he leaned back casually and said, “I’m going to fuck your girlfriend tonight.”
Wine nearly escaped my mouth as I forced a nervous chuckle. Did he mean it as a joke?
“Why the fuck are you laughing?” he demanded, unexpectedly tense. “A man says he’s going to fuck your girl—your first reaction is to laugh? This is going to be easier than I thought.”
Before I could respond, Emma returned, giggling, and slid back into her seat.
She smiled at Timothée, then at me. “Ready to go, honey?”
“Yeah—” I began.
“We’re having fun—why stop now?” Timothée interrupted smoothly. “My penthouse is just a few blocks away. Let’s grab some drinks; I’ll show you around.”
“Yeah, let’s do it! Isn’t that great?” Emma beamed.
Despite my hesitation, nerves whispering caution, my gut told me Timothée wasn’t joking.
“I’m tired… early work tomorrow,” I murmured.
“Come on! How often do you get to hang with THE Timothée Chalamet?” Emma teased, lightly punching my arm. “Don’t be such a party pooper.”
Blushing, I shrugged.
Timothée smiled at me knowingly. Our eyes locked; in that simple shared glance, I surrendered control.
I nodded.
I consented to what was about to unfold next.